Back Aa

Pixie O'Shaughnessy

Close

<h3>Chapter Twenty Six.</h3> <h4>The Sentence.</h4> That afternoon and the next day passed away like a nightmare, and still the Major lay in the same helpless calm. Mr Hilliard had gone over to Dublin on his own responsibility, and had come back late at night, bringing with him a trained nurse, at the sight of whom Bridgie shed tears of thankfulness; but during the daytime the sisters took it in turns to watch by the bedside, while Mademoiselle seemed to act the part of guardian angel to the whole household in turns. She soothed the excited servants and roused them to a sense of their duty. She cooked dainty little dishes for the nurses, and ministered to them when they were off duty. She interviewed callers, and, last and best of all, took Pixie in hand, and kept her interested and content. It was the strong wish of her brothers and sisters that Pixie should not suspect the dangerous nature of her father’s illness, for they knew her excitable nature, and trembled for the effect on the invalid of one of her passionate bursts of lamentation. “Besides, what’s the use? Let her be happy as long as she can! I want her to be happy!” cried Bridgie pathetically; and Mademoiselle assented, knowing full well that the very effort of keeping up before the child would be good for the rest of the household. There was no preventing one interview, however, for the Major was as much set on seeing his piccaninny as she was determined to see him; so on the evening of the second day Bridgie led her cautiously into the room, and the sick man moved his eyes—the only part of him that seemed able to move—and looked wistfully into the eager face. “Well, my Pixie, I’ve been getting into trouble, you see!” “Does it hurt ye, father? Have you got a pain?” “Never a bit, Pixie. I’m just numb. I feel as if I can’t move!” “I’ve felt the same meself. Many times! I feel it every morning at school when the gong rings and I’m made to get up. It’s the same as being lazy.” The Major smiled for the first time since his return home. He never could resist Pixie’s quaint speeches, and Bridgie watched with delight his brightening glance. “Is it, piccaninny? That doesn’t sound very serious. You’ll have to tell the doctor to be stern with me. What have you been doing with yourself all day?” “Fretting for you, but Mademoiselle’s going to play games with me, and I’ll enjoy them now that you’re comfortable. You’ve got on the very best pillow-cases, father. You do look smart! Are you tired now? Do you want to go to sleep? Will I sing to you awhile, the hymn you liked so much at church last Sunday?” Bridgie looked dismayed at the suggestion, but it appeared that Pixie knew best what would please her father, for once more his face brightened, and the eyes flashed an assent. On Sunday evenings in winter, when the long dark walk made it difficult to get to church, the O’Shaughnessys had been accustomed to sing hymns together, not in the drawling, slipshod method in which such singing is too often done, but with at least as much care and finish as they would have bestowed on secular music, the different parts being accurately represented, and due attention given to time and expression. In this way delightful hours had been spent, and many beautiful hymns imprinted on the memory, so that in this instance Pixie had no need to consult a book. She merely leant against the bed-post, clasped her hands together, and, opening her lips, began at once to sing, with clear, full-throated sweetness— <blockquote> “‘Come unto Me, ye weary, And I will give you rest!’” </blockquote> The beautiful old words seemed to take upon themselves an added significance in the shaded room, with the motionless figure lying upon the bed. The Major shut his eyes, and Bridgie turned aside with quivering face, but the flute-like voice went on without a tremor— <blockquote> “‘Come unto Me, ye fainting,     And I will give you life!’ O cheering voice of Jesus,     Which comes to end our strife. The foe is stern and eager,     The fight is fierce and long, But He has made us mighty,     And stronger than the strong.” </blockquote> There was a slight quickening of time in the last two lines, a clearer, stronger tone, as the singer’s emotional nature caught the triumph in the words, but the last verse was soft as an echo. <blockquote> “‘And whosoever cometh     I will not cast him out.’ O welcome voice of Jesus,     Which drives away our doubt; Which calls us very sinners,     Unworthy though we be Of love so free and boundless,     To come, dear Lord, to Thee!” </blockquote> The Major’s face was in shadow, but Bridgie saw the big tears rolling down his cheeks, and hurried the little sister from the room. “You sang beautifully, darling. It was sweet of you to think of it, but now we must let him be quiet. I think perhaps he will go to sleep.” “Yes, he says he feels lazy! The Major was always fond of his bed!” cried Pixie, skipping blithely down the staircase; but when Bridgie went back to the sick-room her father’s eyes were fixed eagerly on the doorway, and he said in urgent tones— “Bride, I’m wanting to see O’Brien! Send down for him at once, and when he arrives, let him come up alone. I want to have a talk!” Bridgie obeyed, in fear and trembling. Had something in the sweet though solemn words of the hymn arrested the sick man’s attention and given him a conviction of his own danger? She sent the faithful Dennis in search of the doctor, and in less than an hour’s time the two old friends were once more face to face. “O’Brien,” said the Major clearly, “I want you to answer me a question before I sleep. Shall I ever hunt again?” And at this the doctor heaved a sigh of relief, for he had feared a more direct inquiry, and consequently one more difficult to answer. “Not this season, my boy; you must make up your mind to that. A spill like yours takes a little time to recover. You must be easy, and make yourself happy at home.” “O’Brien, shall I ever hunt again?” The doctor put his hand to his head in miserable embarrassment. He had known handsome Jack O’Shaughnessy since he was a boy in knickerbockers. It was more than he could stand to look him in the face and give him his death-warrant. “Now—now—now,” he cried impatiently, “it isn’t like you, Major, to be worrying your head about what is going to happen next year! Keep still, and be thankful you’ve a comfortable bed to lie on and two of the prettiest daughters in Ireland to wait upon you! When next season comes it will answer for itself, but I’m not a prophet—I can’t foretell the future.” The Major looked in his face with bright, steady eyes. “You foolish fellow!” he cried. “You foolish fellow! You were always a bad hand at deception, and you are no cleverer than usual this evening. What are you afraid of, man? I’m not a coward! If my time’s come, I can face it calmly. Back injured, eh? That’s why I felt no pain, but it’s difficult to realise that an injury is hopeless, when one is so comparatively comfortable. How long will it be?” He was perfectly calm, but the doctor was trembling with emotion, and his voice was rough with tears. “I can’t say. You are very ill, old man—I won’t deceive you—but while there is life there is hope. We are going to have a man from Dublin; we will try every means, and you must help us by keeping up your heart. One never knows what changes may take place.” But the Major only looked at him the more steadily and repeated his question. “How long will it be? I ought to know, so that I may do what I can for the children. I haven’t been the best of fathers to them, and the estate is in a rare muddle. And Jack! What about Jack? I’d like to see him again, but if it’s not imminent, I won’t bring him back just yet. The boy is doing well, but he is not his own master, and has just had a holiday. I must be unselfish in my last days, but you must promise, doctor, not to let me go without seeing Jack!” “My dear fellow, it’s not a question of days! At the worst it will be weeks, possibly months. My own opinion is two or three months, but we shall know better after Barrett has been down. I wish you had not asked me. It’s the hardest work I’ve ever had to do, to tell you this; but for the children’s sake—If there is anything to be done, you ought not to waste time!” “I understand!” said the Major quietly, then suddenly a light flashed across his face, and his eyes sparkled as with joy. “I shall die at Knock!” he cried. “I shall not have to turn out after all! It was that that drove me mad, O’Brien—the thought of leaving the old place where I was born, and all my people before me! I had bad news from the bank, and it seemed as if the end had come at last, and all the time I was riding I was feeling desperate—driven into a corner. The poor beast tried to save me, she knew the jump was too much for her, but I was too reckless to care. I felt that I could face death sooner than leave the old place, and now it has come to that after all. I shall die at Knock! Thank God for that! Go downstairs, O’Brien, and tell the girls that I know the truth, and am quite happy. You needn’t mind leaving me. I shall sleep now!” <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2